


A Job Well Done

by Dangersocks



Category: Chew, Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Bad Puns, Earl can cook, Food, M/M, Multi, Puns & Word Play, Typical Night Vale Weirdness, capital campaign, good boyfriends, post-Capital Campaign, team cecearlos 2014
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-19
Updated: 2014-07-19
Packaged: 2018-02-09 12:13:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1982574
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dangersocks/pseuds/Dangersocks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a chef -- famous for shaming incompetent locals -- comes to town, Night Vale becomes more than just a friendly, dessert community.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Job Well Done

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [A Waltz for Three](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1184060) by [M_Moonshade](https://archiveofourown.org/users/M_Moonshade/pseuds/M_Moonshade). 



> I don't even know how to explain this. 
> 
> Chow Chu is a character from Image Comics' "Chew" -- which crosses over surprisingly well with WTNV. You don't need to know anything about him to enjoy this, but I do recommend you pick up the series at your local comic shop. It's insane and fun. Obviously, those are traits you already possess if you are reading Night Vale fanfic. 
> 
> I'm also playing with **[M Moonshade's](http://archiveofourown.org/users/M_Moonshade/pseuds/M_Moonshade)** universe here. She has, through painstaking work, brought Carlos, Earl and Cecil together in her **[Return of Scoutmaster Harlan](http://archiveofourown.org/series/70845)** series. They are a bunch of supportive dorks. 
> 
> Thanks to Moonshade, and [**Moony**](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Maiden_of_the_Moon/pseuds/Maiden_of_the_Moon), and [**Meowvale**](http://meowvale.tumblr.com/) for the confidence. Honestly, I feared this idea. I don't anymore. ❤ 
> 
> I do not apologize at all for the puns.
> 
> EVER.

Cecil flinches at the choice of music suddenly blaring over the auditorium loudspeakers. It is worse than he has feared. Spotlights roll down and throw sequins of coloured, pinwheeling spots across the audience in garish fashion. He glances aside at his guest and expects Carlos to be frowning, too.

 

There has not been this much abuse of lasers since the Pink Floyd concert that most certainly did not happen. He knows how much Carlos worries about that.

 

The scientist is smirking, though. He catches Cecil’s eye. “I get it.”

 

“Pardon?” the radio host needs to shout. The volume of the presentation’s theme is at uncomfortable decibels.

 

“It’s a food pun,” Carlos explains, very good at catching such plays on words. “‘Space Jam.’ Jam, get it?”

 

Unfortunately, Cecil does.

 

The upbeat track continues as a man dressed in a casual Hawaiian print shirt with shoes that are far too nice for the desert (or even a beach) marches out with each beat of the song.

 

“Ladies, gentlemen, are you ready to crumble?!”

 

The cheers are awkward, no doubt because the politically incorrect avoidance of non-gendered and non-human species. The man is holding his microphone like an amateur. Cecil already finds him wanting in emcee capabilities.

 

“Thank you for welcoming us to your town, Night Vale!” the man greets.

 

“I didn’t welcome him,” Cecil mutters.

 

“You did too,” his partner elbows him. “On your show yesterday. Relax and enjoy yourself.”

 

Glancing at the well-meaning stare of his boyfriend, Cecil finds that he is able to convey how impossible that recommendation is.

 

He knows that Carlos understands. A calloused hand squeezes his knee. “Earl will be fine.”

 

Faking a grin proves he is out of practice with the procedure. They are about to repeat a conversation they have had multiple times since the fateful interview the day before. Only this time the conversation will be done through shouting and hand gestures, displacing the entertainment of the audience around them.

 

Good.

 

Cecil could start with how he hates the idea of some fancy stranger publicly berating their boyfriend. And Carlos will counter that Earl is a scoutmaster and a very deadly foe. He likely has secret badges that will protect him from the brunt of verbal assaults.

 

It doesn’t protect Cecil from feeling the attacks second-hand, and he would interrupt with how Earl’s reputation is at risk. Several of the people around them are parents and family members and even the leader’s own boys. Any weakness and those specters will remember it forever, using it to undermine Earl’s authority at every chance. Carlos will remind his lover that Scouts and family members of Scouts are not like interns and are more likely to forgive someone who had saved the town and their lives several times over.

 

And then Cecil will finally glance at his hands knotting in his lap, murmuring under the roar of speakers and an uproarious applause that he is mostly upset because whatever happens to Earl on that stage, it is Cecil’s fault the man is there.

 

Cecil and his big mouth on his radio show.

 

It had started with the announcement of a big wig chef passing through. Chow Chu, an expert in the kitchen, was producing a very successful tour where he found local cooks and mocked their incompetence on national television. The man on the microphone, Kale Pepper, had joined Cecil in the studio to talk about the production, hoping to drum up local recommendations of “guests” Night Vale could provide for their present stop.

 

The phone calls had been spontaneous. Big Rico and Gino and Rosie topped the list. As the weather reported itself, Cecil refilled his coffee and commented to his guest that he had grown used to simple things after settling down with his boyfriends. By the way, he had two boyfriends. One was a perfect scientist who could perfectly science a dinner out of a very scientific microwave. The other was a scoutmaster who performed magic with simple things like tinder and beans, mac n’ cheese, or sometimes the random bear.

 

As an idea started to dawn on the radio host to himself recommend a certain Steve Carlesberg, who made “simply the very best biscuits, that Steve,” he had unknowingly missed the way Mr. Pepper’s eyes had seemed to alight at the mention of the scout leader.

 

The weather had ended and Cecil and Kale had returned to announce the names of the chosen cooks. There suddenly had been an added name on the list, Kale grinning widely with teeth well practiced with chewing and biting viciously into opportunities. “And Earl Harlan.”

 

Cecil had gawped at the surprise addendum, failing to correct the man before being buried under the promise of free tickets and thanks. Then the show had ended with the last five minutes falling off of the hour. So sure of what the vindictive, mysterious Chow would subject Earl to, Cecil could only murmur into the microphone, “Listeners, I fear we are all out of thyme.”

 

Both of his boyfriends had been listening at home. Earl had shrugged when Cecil had returned, putting up no resistance at all as he focused on helping a few local boys add propulsion systems to their derby carts for the following week’s Annual-Scout-Race-Against-the-Ghost-Cars.

 

The lack of response from Earl must have indicated an act of denial. The scoutmaster had simply written down the details of where to be and when before excusing himself for the night. Sure, everyone knows that derby carts need to be painted by moonlight and dreamed beside or they will not accept their driver, but Cecil also knows fear when it clings to a resident of Night Vale.

 

Unless he mixes that up with wood varnish. Still, it is _entirely_ his fault that they are here. That Earl is there, behind the curtain. He swallows.

 

Carlos squeezes his knee again.

 

The curtains rise. “A toast to the chef with the most skill...et: Chow Chu!”

 

In the centre of the stage stands the man in question, a little on the shorter side but proudly extending his broad shoulders against his nearly perfect white, double-breasted jacket. His eyes shine under eyebrows that are styled like his greasy black goatee. His thin legs uphold a large frame. He exudes confidence and predatory instinct, yet all Cecil can see are the victims as they fill up the rest of the stage.

 

Particularly, Cecil sees Earl.

 

He has a table, like Gino and Rico and Rosie. But Earl is in black, the jacket and pants a surprising, eternal dark. It makes Cecil think of funeral clothing (also...Wednesdays).  Earl’s toque fits against his head naturally and he stands at attention, not unlike at certain Scout ceremonies. He breaks the spell of dread that is growing in Cecil’s stomach as he squints against the spotlight, scanning the crowd until he spots where Cecil and Carlos sits. His lips quirk as Gino wrinkles his nose and Rico keeps his hands busy and Rosie talks to something no other person can see.

 

Carlos waves, though Cecil feels his heart drop a little further. How brave their boyfriend is. Earl is being brave for their benefit.

 

“Our contestants today, let’s start with ladies first. Rosie from Rosie’s All-Nite Diner!”

 

Cheers and unintelligible curses and blessings war out in response, Rosie flinching and no doubt pondering how well the table will protect her against anything should she flip it. Chow steps over to shake her hand, all smiles and disarming techniques. She stares through him.

 

“Gino, who runs Night Vale’s Gino’s Italian Dining Experience...and Grill...and Bar,” Kale croons.

 

“It is the nicest place in Night Vale,” adds Gino as Chu makes his way to greet him.

 

“Big Rico, who runs the only pizza place in town.”

 

Rico quickly wipes his hands up and down his apron before his big fists envelope Chu’s. The experience seems unpleasant for both of them.

 

“And finally, Earl Harlan, who does not have a restaurant but knows how to find food and make it edible on long, dark nights.”

 

Cecil is about to grumble to his companion that such a skill is already way more valuable than what any of these pretentious outsiders would appreciate, but he stops when Chu stalls in his route to the final table. Then, the guest chef glides to Kale, pulling him aside and asking, “I may not have heard correctly. What was that you said?”

 

Kale frowns, unused to repeating himself. “Uh...Earl Harlan! He does not have a restaurant but he can cook cactuses and stuff.”

 

“Earl…” Chow Chu sounds out, leaning into his announcer. Then he turns. “No. It can’t be. _The_ Earl Harlan?”

 

In response, the scoutmaster shrugs.

 

“Yes...well...common name,” Chu recovers. “Very well, hello. I am Chow Chu and we are here to see which of you is the more superior of chefs. I don’t mean to spoil things, but we all know I’m best…”

 

He pauses and a few of his fans snicker. Cecil must admit that it is well timed. It only makes him loathe the man more.

 

“But to start with,” continues Chow. “Let’s do something easy. Cauliflower souffle with brown butter. You will find ingredients under the table, and instructions -- should you even need them -- with your ingredients. You have twenty minutes. In the meantime, I have been cooking all day so we will start handing out samples of this recipe while our cooks get to work.”

 

Carlos hums. “Free seats _and_ a free meal. Well done, Mr. Palmer.”

 

“I have no intentions of enjoying the sweet bounty of this wicked man,” growls the host.

 

“A free meal is a free meal,” teases Carlos. “Stop having such a fowl attitude. Look, Earl isn’t even phased.”

 

It proves to be so, the scoutmaster turning to the ovens lined at the back of the stage and adjusting the dials. He carries with him the supplied pan, buttering it as he moves.

 

“I bet they expected him to use a magnifying glass or a fire charm,” mutters Cecil.

 

Gino is doing the same as Earl, while Rico digs loudly through his things for the necessary paper. Rosie has displaced all of her food stuffs from her box and has climbed into it. A helpful young man wearing a Chow Chu t-shirt steps up into Cecil’s row and holds out a paper plate with an impressive portion of green-speckled egg fluff. It smells divine.

 

“No, I think not,” Cecil declines.

 

Carlos apprehends the plate before the confused man can step away. “I’ll need that. Science.”

 

“How can you support that man? That...is he even a man? What dark secrets does Chow Chu bring to Night Vale? How does one become so devious in the kitchen? What evils will he unleash on our friends tonight?”

 

Carlos chews thoughtfully. “Eggcellent questions. Shall I distract you with food puns?”

 

“This is important,” Cecil exclaims, motioning at the stage where the visiting chef is watching the contestants with narrowed eyes. “He is picking apart their flaws. He will find what mistake they make, not because they are bad at their jobs but because they are human. And he will shame them for that, Carlos. He will mock them in front of the entire crowd and those present will abuse them. Will laugh and scorn them, because that is what crowds do.”

 

“So,” Carlos starts, a plastic fork stabbing at the attention of his one boyfriend. “Old colanders don’t die. They just can’t take the strain anymore.”

 

“This is serious,” Cecil hisses. “We should be proud of our human errors. Not cut down by them. At least not by other humans. The Glow Cloud, maybe…”

 

“When making butter, there is little margarine for error.”

 

“Carlos!”

 

And Carlos does stop, as Chu has started his advance. Rosie is trying to use her wooden spoons to row her in her imaginary boat off of the stage. One spoon has broken. Chu descends, berating the woman as being terrible at implementing her tools properly. Furthermore, if her boat _were_ a boat, she is steering incorrectly.

 

Gino nods accordingly. Rico ducks his head harder into his work, no doubt grateful at Rosie’s sacrifice as she takes up their host’s attentions. Rosie herself is wide-eyed, mouth slack and silently screaming.

 

Then Earl steps over, string and spoons in hand. “They are short oars for a boat,” he assesses. “But I’ve doubled these up. Rosie, if I can borrow yours for a second, a cross knot might be strong enough to reinforce these. You’ll at least get to the curtain line before it gives.”

 

Rosie stares, relinquishing her sticks to the scout who weaves them with his into longer, sturdier implements.

 

“Shouldn’t you be focusing on your project?” Chu, not kindly, suggests.

 

“Hm?” Earl hums, still knotting a pattern of string together. “It’s in the oven. I’ve already washed up.”

 

Gino drops a spoon. Rico frantically beats his bowl. Rosie acquires a new set of oars. Her benefactor scoops up the broken spoon and hands it to her as well. “This is sharp, so you can use it against whatever you find as a weapon.”

 

“You’re a fever,” she tells him, which is something she tells everyone.

 

Chu wanders over to Earl’s table. It does not look as if it has been used. He circles the work area and then approaches the oven. “You likely overbeat the eggs to get it done first,” he assesses. “It is the most common sin with dealing in souffles. We’ll know when it comes out. This is not a race, Mr. Harlan.”

 

“I didn’t overbeat the eggs,” Earl says as he stands stationary, allowing Rosie to see how her progress fairs. She is inching away bit by bit with an ear-grating split of wood on wood.

 

Rico stops pounding his spoon against the sides of his bowl at the new knowledge regarding souffles.

 

“Then it will undercook,” Chu drawls. “You didn’t give the oven enough time to preheat.”

 

“I’ll know when it is done,” states Earl.

 

“Please.”

 

“I will,” the scoutmaster repeats. “Rosie, I have time to make a sail. Can I borrow your tablecloth?”

 

“This isn’t arts and crafts,” Kale Pepper reminds from the sidelines.

 

“Could I start on the second recipe, then?” offers Earl, helpful.

 

“We haven’t handed out the recipe lists for that one yet. We’d prefer to do that as a…group effort.”

 

“Coq au Vin,” states Earl. “If the unused items in the box are any indication.”

 

The conversation prevents Chu from watching Gino complete his contribution. Rico, too, throws whatever he has compiled into his oven. Rosie is halfway across the stage, fending off unseen sirens.

 

“It wouldn’t be fair for the other contestants.”

 

“I’m a master at Coq au Vin,” insists Gino. “A head start for the others is not something that bothers _me!_ ”

 

Rico nods vigorously. Rosie is winning her battle against the sea.

 

Leaning over, Carlos deposits his empty plates onto the floor beneath their seats. Something pulls the styrofoam under. He whispers, “I would probably stop worrying about Earl if I were you. Help me think of ways to make him make supper for the rest of our natural lives, okay?”

 

Cecil nods, mouth full of things to say and suddenly grateful that Carlos has taken an effort to chew quietly.

 

\--

 

The show devolves into chaos. This is expected.

 

Pizza is one of the items on the menu, which leads to a discussion of wheat and its by-products with the famous visiting chef. The man seems to find not only the notion of censoring food ridiculous, but he even admittedly hates the concept of being denied a chance to cook anything. Fortunately, Earl fends off the resulting poisonous snakes before they claim either the host or his announcer. The distraction is time enough for all ovens but Rico’s to burst into uncontrollable flames. It is the only round Earl does not outdo his companions, though the whole town knows that no one does a slice like Rico.

 

No one.

 

Chow Chu does a surprising job of holding himself together against the horrors of the fire fighters and then the poorly performed, but somehow successful, collective cover-up against the sudden Secret Police investigation into the breach of wheat and wheat by-product quarantine. The entire audience pulls together to simultaneously deny the occurrence of the grain.

 

Kale Pepper has gone missing by the end of the production. Parts of his Hawaiian shirt lie in tatters under the abandoned microphone cord. With the position untended, the show nearly goes on indefinitely until Cecil adopts the responsibility of telling everyone to go home. Released of their burden to stay, the crowds disperse (hopefully to their houses and beds and loved ones.)

 

The radio host turns about on the stage, not used to having spotlights glaring down upon him. Carlos has joined him on what is left of the dias. He has salvaged the Coq au Vin that he guesses is Earl’s, though if it is not it still tastes good and he can prompt the other to later recreate the food in order to confirm his theory.

 

They both watch Chu stare at Earl, shaking his head. “It was you. Goddamn it.”

 

The scoutmaster shakes the chef’s hand. “Use baking soda on your grease fires next time.”

 

“It was just my luck to have you on my show,” the man concedes. “If you’re ever willing to leave Night Vale to work with me…”

 

“Flattered,” Earl says, turning to regard the pair of men waiting for him. “But my bread is buttered here. Well...it would be, if bread were legal.”

 

“You butter believe it,” Carlos agrees.

 

“Carlos, perfect Carlos,” Cecil hums into his microphone. “Please stuff it.”

 

-

 

Though Cecil and Carlos had walked to the event under the soft hum of the closing afternoon, they find Carlos’ Coup waiting for them at the door. The vehicle purrs as the men climb in. There is silence until Cecil finally sucks in a breath. He exhales with a jumble of words, the syntaxes and sound waves overflowing like a Ralph’s baking soda soda. “I had no idea Earl could do that and I’ve been friends with him since...since forever! Did you know? Did you?”

 

Carlos shakes his head, having never noticed the talent when their companion had taken his share of kitchen chores. Earl makes a delicious bean mess and other camp-like fares. When Carlos had taken up counter space with his experiments, the other would sometimes create breakfast around the scientist. In these cases, Carlos had only observed a perfunct discipline in the man, which is a trait Earl exemplifies in every task.

 

As if summoned, a door on the side of the building glows as it opens. A familiar shape is briefly silhouetted by the interior lights before moonlight takes over. Earl is still in his black tunic. The Coup happily inches up the curb to shorten the distance between them.

 

“Sorry that took so long,” greets the scout. “I’m glad you waited. Chu wanted to get me on the phone with a friend of his and he was very insistent.”

 

“More job offers?” Carlos whistles. “You certainly rise to the occasion with the yeast amount of warning.”

 

The new occupant kicks Carlos’ seat. “A local job offer, actually. And the name of the project caught my interest so I didn’t extract myself by using Dark Arts. Turns out there’s going to be a place opening soon called Tourniquet. Remember LaShawn Mason?”

 

“I was wondering why he didn’t represent,” Cecil nods. “You’d think after Shame he’d be looking for some of Chow’s humiliation.”

 

“They’re friends, so I guess he gets enough of it on the phone,” Earl contends. “I’m still thinking about it. We’ll have to see how a new job fits with my schedule.”

 

“Speaking of,” interrupts the radio host, straining against his seatbelt to regard Earl. “Since when have you been a master chef? Did I miss an Eternal Scout prerequisite or am I completely a bad boyfriend, or worse...an awful reporter for missing that?”

 

Carlos eases their ride into traffic, glancing back in the mirror. Earl’s lips are thin and tight. He finally settles on an answer, reaching out to take Cecil’s sleeve.

 

“Cecil, I love you. But please remember, you are the _most_ re-educated person in Night Vale. Of course you’d forget a few things. I’ve _always_ been a progeny in the kitchen. Before I was in the Scouts I was infamous for the talent. My parents took me across country to be on television shows. We went to some pretty weird places. Indianapolis...great Spire, you’d listen to stories about that place and be certain I was making them up -- which I wasn’t. I used to bring snacks to Scout meetings and our leaders made that mandatory until my dad talked to them. I made you birthday cakes until you were thirteen, each more and more elaborate than the last. We’d have fights over whether t.v. or radio was better. Once, we argued so much we stopped speaking for a week. I thought you were jealous. You thought I was showing off. We were probably both right. It came to a choice of me pursuing a more ambitious cooking career, or taking up more specialized and demanding Scout duties. Before your trip to Svitz, I asked you about what I should do. I made a choice with your input, and after that I was devoted to the Boy Scouts full-time. You were working more when you came back and...well, we weren’t as close. Not like I wanted us to be. And when you seemed to forget entirely about that part of our relationship, I understood. Or I tried to. I can still cook, but it just never seems comes up. You’re both happy with hot dogs and invisible corn, and I like that kind of food, too. I realized how much I didn’t miss specialized cooking until I was dragged off at the Eternal Scout ceremony. Of all the regrets I had in those last seconds, culinary adventures was not one of them. Mostly, I thought about you.”

 

Carlos is grateful for his Coup’s ability to drive itself. He is observing his companions, not sure how to categorize the feelings he feels -- sad or sympathetic or awed to be privy to such knowledge. Earl is looking concerned. Cecil’s expression flickers through guilt and self-justifications with an alarming speed.

 

“How do I forget these things?” the radio personality finally keens.

 

“We forget a lot of things,” Earl murmurs. “It’s fine, Cecil.”

 

“It’s _not_ fine!”

 

“It can be,” Carlos intrudes. “I learned something just now. As a scientist, that’s very important for me to do. But _especially_ now, because I learned something about _Earl_. And as a boyfriend, that’s the best thing to do. You get to start over again, Cecil. Here’s a side of our intrepid companion that you get to uncover.”

 

“Exactly,” presses the scout. “Turns out I’m good in the kitchen. Surprise!”

 

“And you’ll be cooking more often,” Carlos adds. “Seriously, Earl. We knead to explore this.”

 

“I can’t cook under pressure,” laments Earl, wryly. “Cecil, are you okay?”

 

Cecil nods. He swallows, slowly. Then he drops his voice and says, “I will admit, I am hungry. Do you know what I’m hungry for?”

 

“If you say my cock…”

 

“Your cock!”

 

Carlos snorts. “Too much cocks make me peckish too.”

 

“You are getting cheesier and cheesier, Masters help me Carlos,” Cecil groans.

 

“It’s a grate thing,” chuckles their driver.

 

“I’ll give your jokes a pizza my mind,” Earl snickers.

 

“You will both meet your baker if you don’t stop,” Cecil warns.

 

“Let me a-sage the blame from myself a little,” excuses Carlos. “Cecil takes the cake for starting the puns with his ‘out of thyme’ reference in his interview.”

 

Earl adds, “Yeah, stop being so in-salted.”

 

“That’s it. Stop the car, I’m woking.”

 

Cecil doesn’t walk. They half-laugh, half-cry as they stumble into their home. They try to make it to the bedroom. Further sex plans, though, became tabled.

 

Literally.

 

In the kitchen.


End file.
